


Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum

by nomelon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bickering, Bromance, M/M, Pirates, Pre-Slash, Treasure Hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 11:51:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1687298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomelon/pseuds/nomelon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is a pirate captain and Sam his pirate first mate, and there are pirate shenanigans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum

**Author's Note:**

> I was a bit at a loss for something to write and tried a fic prompt generator. It spat out: Supernatural, character study, buried treasure. This ridiculous thing (with zero character study) is what I came up with.

Sweat was dripping from the tips of Sam's hair and pattering onto the back of his neck. "How come I have to do all the digging?" he asked. 

Dean had his face angled towards the sun and didn't even open his eyes to reply. "Because I'm the captain and I said so. Besides, I dug the first half of the hole."

Sam spluttered. "You mean you dug three shovels of sand then went looking for your rum."

"We only have one shovel, and I didn't want to leave the rum in the boat." Dean waved his hand vaguely. "Seagulls."

Sam stopped midway through heaving a shovel of sand over his shoulder. "Seagulls?"

"Aye. They're scoundrels and thieves and would steal a man's rum as soon as look at him."

Sam stuck the shovel in the sand. "You're a terrible captain and I hope your ship sinks."

Dean eyes flew open as he sucked in a breath, scandalised. "You take that back."

"Shan't." Sam pulled the tattered bandanna from his head and used it to mop his face and the back of his neck.

"You know as well I do that _The Impala_ is the finest ship afloat on the seas today. I'll be in my grave long before she..." Dean shook his head. "I can't even say it."

Sam tucked the bandana in his pocket and stretched out his back. "Did you at least bring the water?"

Dean took a healthy swallow from his bottle and shook his head. "It's still in the boat."

"Seriously, worst captain ever."

"You're lucky you're my brother, Sammy boy. Anybody else saying that and I'd make 'em walk the plank."

"Right," Sam said, unimpressed. "Nobody walks the plank anymore. You're so 1794."

"You see anyone else from our crew here?" Dean spread his arms, looking around for imaginary interlopers. "There's no one else I trust to go looking for Old Yellow Eyes' treasure with me. All those rubies, Sam, just think of it."

"You only have half the map! It's mostly guesswork that this is the right spot and you know it. What you really mean is there's no one else dumb enough to do all your digging for you."

"Sammy, you wound me. Truly you do."

Sam snatched the bottle of rum from Dean's hand. He took a swig and pulled a face. "I'm going to get the water. You could try doing some digging while I'm gone." He shoved the bottle back at Dean and set off down the beach, his boots sliding in the hot white sand. 

Dean stared after him, scowling faintly, his bottle wavering halfway to his mouth. He attempted to rest a casual elbow on Sam's shovel, still sticking out of the sand, and missed, staggering a little until he got his land legs under him. "Yeah, or I could just... rum."

In the distance, Sam disappeared around the curve of the beach into the little cove where they had tethered the boat. Dean squinted in a more northerly direction to see _The Impala_ at anchor: a sleek black schooner resting light on the waves.

"There's my baby," Dean said. "Sam never did appreciate a good ship." He tugged his tricorne lower to shield his eyes from the sun, planted the bottle firmly in the sand, and took hold of the shovel with a sigh. "I bet Blackbeard never had to put up with this kind of insubordination."

He was waist-deep in the hole and streaming with sweat when he heard a dull clap reverberate over the beach: the familiar sound of a musket firing. He dropped instantly to his knees and peeked out from the hole. At the waterline, he saw the unmistakeable sight of his brother, hemmed in by two dark figures, both of them a head and shoulders shorter than Sam.

Dean made a quick survey of the horizon in all directions, but the only ship he could see was _The Impala_. This meant that any other ship in the vicinity was either neatly tucked away in a sheltered bay or anchored on the other side of the island. If the latter was true, for the time being it gave him the advantage of the weather gauge, but there was a lot of land and sea alike to cover between where they stood, finding out who had taken Sam and what to do about it, and making it safely back on-board _The Impala_ with both Sam and, hopefully, the treasure intact.

"Damn your eyes, Sam," he muttered. "Just once I'd like for us to go on a nice quiet treasure hunt together without you getting taken hostage." He slipped out of the hole on his belly and crawled backwards until he was hidden by the crest of the hill. He checked his pistols and his sword and readjusted his hat. "Damn your eyes," he said again, and set about skirting the line of the hill, just hoping that Sam wasn't being bundled into an enemy vessel, about to be shipped off to god alone knew where.

 

\---

 

The thin crescent moon was on the rise when Dean scaled up the side of _The Leviathan_. He clung to the side long enough that his arms were screaming and his toes were cramping, but he had a fair idea of what kind of watch they had, and figured he had about a six minute window before anyone looked his way. He hopped the bulwark and got his back to a bulkhead, sword drawn, a pistol in his other hand. The captain's quarters were behind him, and that was where they were holding Sam. Clearly they knew a high value prisoner when they had one. He hoped.

He burst in through the door to see Sam sitting at the table with three other men. They all stared up at Dean. Sam's wrists were shackled but he was holding playing cards. There was a goodly-sized pile of money and trinkets in the centre of the table, and an even larger pile in front of Sam. 

"Oh," Sam said. "Is this the rescue?"

"Yes, this is the rescue," Dean said, exasperated. 

He pointed his pistol at one of the seated men and pulled the trigger. The hidden short-barrelled musket the man had been pointing at Sam under the table fell from his lax hand and hit the deck with a clatter. 

"Okay, then," said Sam, and produced a wicked looking little dagger from out of thin air and stabbed it into the chest of the man next to him -- who was in the process of raising his pistol in Dean's general direction -- and tipped over his chair over with the force of the blow. 

The third man, the captain, had time to get to his feet and draw his cutlass. "Dean Winchester," he snarled. "I've waited a long time to kill you."

"Dick Roman," said Dean, and brandished his sword. "I should have known."

"You should be thanking me. Your brother is still alive."

"Please, he's bait and you know it." He waved away Sam's affronted look. "And I owe you. You burned down my brothel. I _liked_ that brothel."

"You robbed my men."

"They robbed my girls."

"You stole my ship," Roman said, his eyes narrowed and flinty.

Dean grinned. "And got a pretty penny for it at auction." He made a show of looking around him. "This old girl isn't quite in the same league but I'll be interested to see what I can get for her."

Roman bared his teeth. "I'll have you tarred and feathered and left on an island to die. I'll sit at anchor and watch as the seagulls peck out your dead eyes."

Dean tilted his head. "Have you been rehearsing that?" He leapt back when Roman snarled and swung his sword. "Come on, then." Dean beckoned to him. "Show me what you're made of."

A short but vicious battle played out. It involved Dean jumping on furniture and swinging from a sturdy little chandelier, Roman spitting insults about their parentage, Dean spitting insults about Roman being a stupid, fat, lazy, useless bucket of pig fat and a terrible navigator to boot, Dean getting punched in the eye and knocked to the floor, Sam hitting Roman over the head with a thick book, Sam using a book as a shield when Roman attacked him with his sword, and Dean finally, and with great gusto, stabbing Roman through the ribs and twisting the blade, just to be sure. 

"Captain Dick Roman," Dean said with a sneer. He wiped his blade clean on the front of Roman's vest. Roman watched him with wide eyes, frozen for a moment, before he fell to the floor, his life fading from his body. "You sure know how to pick 'em, Sammy." He knelt and searched through the pockets of Roman's waistcoat and came up with the small key to the shackles.

"I'm a highly prized hostage and worthy adversary," Sam said, holding out his hands for Dean to free him. "Not bait. And he's had it out for you for years."

They stood shoulder to shoulder and looked down at the dead man. "Frankly, I was expecting more," Dean said.

"That's what he said about you," Sam said, rubbing his wrists.

Dean made sure to look good and offended. "I just pulled off a one-man rescue party on a heavily guarded ship and _killed_ the guy in fair combat," he ignored Sam's snort of amusement, "and he didn't even have the good decency to be worried I was coming?"

Sam shrugged. 

"Son of a whore," Dean said, and set about reloading his pistol.

Sam started loading his winnings into a drawstring pouch. "You know, I had everything under control. I was going to jump ship tonight and come find you."

Dean screwed up his face. "How was I to know that?" He stuck his reloaded pistol in his belt, the metal still warm against his belly, and grabbed a fistful of Sam's shirt. He held on for a long moment, staring up at his brother until Sam smiled, a tiny thing, but it told Dean everything he'd been desperate for since the distant sound of a musket firing on a beach. He let out a shaky breath and rested his forehead on Sam's chest, breathing in the salty tang of him, just waiting until his heart stopped trying to break its way out of his chest. Sam's big hand gripped the back of Dean's neck and squeezed, grounding him, letting him know that they were okay.

"All right," Dean said. "All right." He patted Sam's chest, his fingertips grazing bare skin in the wide V of Sam's shirt, and let go. He lifted a mug from the table, sniffed it, and took a healthy swallow.

Sam cleared his throat, then grabbed the pouch and tucked it inside his shirt. "I was winning, too. Now we'll probably have to fight our way off the ship." Sam sighed and buckled on a sword belt, tucking a couple of pistols into it. "Worst captain ever."

"Meu meumeu meumeu," Dean shot back. He narrowed his eyes and peered down at the table. "Is that what I think it is?"

"The other half of the treasure map to Old Yellow Eyes' treasure?" Sam asked. "Aye."

"I see," Dean said. He planted two fingers on the map fragment and turned it to face him. "Uh huh, uh huh. So it looks like we're on the wrong island."

"That we are."

"I see. But you were winning, you say?"

"That I was."

"Hm. And what were you using to bet?"

Sam's gaze slanted away. "Nothing. Just some coins I had on me and, uh, my weapons."

"Against all this? I don't think so." Dean glared at him. "You bet _The Impala_ , didn't you?"

Sam pouted his lips and shook his head like he'd never heard anything more ridiculous in his life.

"You did! You bet my baby against this piece of paper that's probably a fake."

Sam's mouth fell open. "A fake!" he spluttered. "You've been after this treasure for nine years, Dean. Nine _years_ of my life I'm never getting back. You'd have sold your soul for this piece of paper not so long ago to any red-haired harlot who whispered in your ear, and now you're giving me crap because I made a bet with your ship that I had no intention of honouring?"

Dean scowled. "Sounds silly when you put it like that."

"You don't say."

Dean took another swig from the mug and pulled a face. "This is terrible. I hate this ship. We should go now. Our crew'll be getting twitchy. Crowley and Kevin will be at each other's throats."

"Castiel will keep them in line. He always does. You do know you're going to have to share your treasure with them, right?"

"Of course," Dean said, free and easy, because anything else was out of the question. "We do have a code, Sammy: robbing people, hunting treasure." He grinned. "Doesn't mean I have to let them in on the _finding_ the treasure part. That's the fun part. That's just for you and me."

Sam stepped in closer and looked down at his brother fondly. "You're crazy, you are aware of that fact, right?"

Dean smiled up at him, happy to be alive. "Nine kinds of crazy, but I've made my peace with it."

"Can we make our escape now?"

Dean grabbed an oiled leather folder and carefully tucked the other half of the treasure map into it. "Dibs not rowing."

Sam rolled his eyes and cracked open the door of the cabin, checking both directions and above them before beckoning to Dean. "The coast is clear. And just so's you know, I'm going to push you over the side."

Dean grinned and elbowed him out the door. "Don't be ridiculous, Sam. They'd hear the splash."

 

-end-


End file.
